But fairer than the spirits of the air,
More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry,
Than the enthusiast’s fancied love more fair, 35
Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky. 
Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band
Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away;
They welcome virtue to its native land,
And songs of triumph greet the joyous day 40
When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.

Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul,
E’en though the tide of time has rolled between;
They mock weak matter’s impotent control,
And seek of endless life the eternal scene. 45
At death’s vain summons THIS will never die,
In Nature’s chaos THIS will not decay—­
These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie
Thy soul, O Charlotte, ’yond this chain of clay,
To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. 50

Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore
A tyrant’s heart-strings from his guilty breast,
Thine was the daring at a tyrant’s gore,
To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest;
And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear 55
From its base shrine a despot’s haughty soul,
To laugh at sorrow in secure despair,
To mock, with smiles, life’s lingering control,
And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.

Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep 60
With endless tortures goad their guilty shades. 
I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep
Along the burning length of yon arcades;
And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain;
He hastes along the burning soil of Hell. 65
’Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain,
With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell
To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.’

...

Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet
They echo to the sound of angels’ feet. 70

...

Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread,
For there is prepared thy nuptial bed. 
Oh haste—­hark! hark!—­they’re gone.

...

CHORUS OF SPIRITS: 
Stay, ye days of contentment and joy,
Whilst love every care is erasing, 75
Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy,
And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.

And if any soft passion be near,
Which mortals, frail mortals, can know,
Let love shed on the bosom a tear, 80
And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.

SYMPHONY.

FRANCIS: 
’Soft, my dearest angel, stay,
Oh! you suck my soul away;
Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow! 
Tides of maddening passion roll, 85
And streams of rapture drown my soul. 
Now give me one more billing kiss,
Let your lips now repeat the bliss,
Endless kisses steal my breath,
No life can equal such a death.’ 90